


Ugly

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 14:05:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11648082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Thranduil receives a gift from Bard’s little girl.





	Ugly

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for onniilona’s “Barduil: [...] no. 10. [Dressup]” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/163120603835/prompt-list-4).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Beneath the stern look set upon his features, Thranduil’s _overjoyed_ to meet his lover at the gate. It’s been far too long, and each morning Thranduil now rises, he’s reminded anew of just how few days Bard has left—he’s still relatively young now, handsome and strong, but that won’t last. Their time together is a precious, ephemeral thing that Thranduil’s learned to crave, and if it weren’t for the stresses of the current world requiring him to guard his people, he might choose to live out one lifetime in the remnants of Dale.

But his people _do_ need him, and as their king, Thranduil has no such luxury. All he can do is look forward to times like this, when Dale’s own king can afford to get away, if only for a little while. Bard and his children are escorted through the grand doors of the palace, where Thranduil waits just inside—even the long walk to his throne would be too long apart. His face remains passive to his guards, his expression closed to even Bard, because no one need know how far he’s truly fallen for this one _mortal_ , but within the hidden confines of his chest, his heart beats faster. Bard comes at first only to clasp his hand, but Thranduil pulls him into a short, noble embrace, one that will tighten considerably when they’re truly _alone_.

Bard’s brought his family this time, to learn Thranduil properly as Legolas has Bard, and he greets each of the three with a nod and verbal welcome. The eldest, Sigrid, looks awed by everything, Thranduil most of all, and curtsies low. The middle child, Bain, tries to stand tall and stoic, but his interest betrays him. The youngest daughter, Tilda, is the most open with her face: she’s pure excitement, and her wide eyes remind him of his little leaf, when Legolas was still small enough to be called that, and free enough to run about the Greenwood after every laughing animal. 

While Sigrid’s politely quiet and Bain thrusts out a hand to shake Thranduil’s, Tilda thrusts a bundled packaged forward, and she tells him brightly, “I made this for you, Your Highness, as a thank you for making Da’ so happy!”

Thranduil, surprised and strangely touched, takes it with a less-curt-than-usual, “Thank you.” He accepts the gift into his open hands, and Tilda grins like she’s won some game. Bard’s cheeks are flushed, and he gives Thranduil a subtle, apologetic shrug, which Thranduil sweeps past. He had a small child of his own once, and he understands them more than most would think of him. 

He doesn’t have time to unwrap the gift just then, for a feast is already prepared, and Bard’s arrival comes late into the evening. They’re all taken to the banquet hall, where Dale’s king is given a place of honour at Thranduil’s side, and the children sit about the head table with them. Legolas is gone to Imladris, which Bard asks after—he can never quite seem to grasp that Thranduil’s son is several centuries old. In a way, Thranduil finds it strangely flattering. 

Thranduil spends the dinner entirely too chaste and sober, the celebrations kept strangely light for their halls, but it’s still enjoyable enough. Mostly, Thranduil is just pleased to have Bard in his presence again, sitting sturdy at his side, looking particularly handsome in new clothes of nobility. Bard was ravishing when Thranduil first met him, dressed in only rags with shaggy hair and too much stubble, and he’s exquisite now, fit to star in songs. The feast lasts long into the night, Bard’s children full of bubbling questions and Bard too busy trying to subdue them to eat. It becomes exasperating at times, but is mostly amusing, and seeing Bard’s paternal skills does nothing to lessen Thranduil’s interest. By the time they finally finish with dessert, Thranduil’s looking thoroughly forward to taking Bard back with him to his quarters, where they might share a bottle of wine.

Except that Bard’s children will all need guest quarters, and while Galion has already arranged it, Bard insists on escorting them there to help them settle in. So Thranduil is left to retire alone. He’s only made it a few steps from the table when Feren rushes to him, holding the sizeable parcel Tilda gifted him, and Thranduil takes it to carry up to his quarters—he’d quite forgotten to open it at dinner.

By the time he’s reached his own rooms, set down his crown and shed his cloak, he does feel a pressing curiosity. He knows very little about Bard’s youngest child, and he’s quite sure she knows equally as little about him. The package is wrapped in only a loose square shape, and it feels soft beneath the crinkled parchment used for wrapping. He deftly unfastens the string bow, then opens up the folds.

A heap of fabric lies in the middle, dyed a deep crimson. There is no embroidery, no embellishment. The stitching he can see is crude. Even at Tilda’s age—nothing for an elf—Legolas could sew far better. But Legolas is an Elven prince of inordinate talent, and Thranduil reminds himself that of course none could compare to his heir. Besides, in a certain light, the innocence of the craft is oddly endearing. This must have been quite difficult for her, and yet she persevered on Thranduil’s behalf, and the result looks rather heartfelt. He’s old enough to treasure those things even more than diamonds.

He reaches in to lift the fabric out, unveiling a set of shapeless robes. Or, perhaps more accurately, a dress. There are no buttons, no ties, only a particularly large neckline and tube sleeves. It doesn’t seem as tall as him, but there’s only one way to find out. 

Mostly out of wry amusement, Thranduil carries the gift over to the full-length mirror mounted against the far wall. There he drapes the dress over the nearest chair and unfastens his current robes—his favourite silver set, one which nicely hugs his trim figure and accentuates his toned body, glittering faintly in any light. He slips the familiar fabric gracefully from his shoulders, letting it all fall away, until he stands utterly bare before his mirror. Then he sweeps his hair back, pausing only a moment to examine himself, and bends to collect his robes off the floor. 

Those he folds and sets in the chair. He pulls the dress on next, having to toss it over his head and tug it down his chest and arms, which he tries to straighten out, but the seams are crooked, and it swerves a little to the left. The neckline is large enough to house three necks, slumping instead down his shoulders. The middle has no darts whatsoever and simply hangs straight to the floor, stopping just short to display his ankles. Even after Thranduil tries to pull it into place and brushes his hair better down his back, it’s a comical display. Easily the sloppiest he’s ever looked in his entire life. He’s never seen a worse garment, even on the lowest of mortal servants, and the fact that Tilda had no way of knowing his measurements doesn’t at all excuse the poor taste in general. For a long moment, Thranduil stares at himself, hardly recognizing the figure that looks back to him, and he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cringe. 

Either way, he’ll need a dignified way to politely decline wearing it tomorrow. As much as he knows it would touch Bard to do so, he simply can’t be seen like this. The thought does touch him too, but that’s not enough to utterly loose the respect of all his subjects. He looks as though he’s taken the typical figure of a mortal woman as a costume, but conspicuously and poorly.

He’s just about to strip it off again when a knock sounds on his door. Thranduil, knowing it could only be Bard and perhaps Bard could at least endure this one glimpse, strolls over to answer it.

He still opens the door only enough for Bard to sidle in, then quickly closes it again. Bard glances at him, perhaps finding this behaviour strange, then straightens right up and _stares_.

Thranduil bears the scrutiny. He tries to stand as tall and attractively as possible, which is normally a rather easy feat for him—he’s never had to _try_ to be attractive. He knows well how desirable he is, and just how much both his own people and Bard do desire him. But _this_ does make it difficult. After a few seconds, it becomes clear that Bard is mildly horrified. His cheeks begin to stain again, becoming an endearing pink.

Thranduil, deciding to play it as though he’s just as high above the world as usual, drawls smoothly, “Perhaps your daughter still has some ways to go in her tailoring endeavors. But it is an admirable start and a kind sentiment.”

Bard finally manages to lift his eyes to Thranduil’s face, and he says only, “Take it off.”

Thranduil crooks one brow and retorts, “I beg your pardon?”

“Take it off,” Bard repeats, his nose even scrunching up with it.

Thranduil can only ask, torn between amusement and irritation, “Is it truly _so_ hideous?”

“No, but it makes me think of my little girl,” Bard admits, “which is the last think I want to be thinking off when I look at your bare shoulders and a peek at your chest, and a dress so loose that it may as well be a nightgown on a new wife of mine.”

Thranduil’s other brow lifts beside the first. He should’ve known better than to doubt his own allure. Bard adds in a conspicuously lower voice, “Besides, I didn’t ride all the way from Dale to see you in clothes.”

So Thranduil, now smirking up a storm, pulls his gift free again. He steps over to have his lover join him in the better clothing choice: nothing at all.


End file.
